


Dinner Dates

by allonsys_girl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Bisexual John, Bisexual Male Character, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Hand Jobs, Loss of Virginity, M/M, POV John Watson, Season/Series 01, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:10:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John build their relationship, starting with dinner. Story starts right after A Study in Pink. (I was thinking of the unaired pilot when I wrote it, but either version works.) Smutty at the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner Dates

I twirl my fork into my lo mein, and look up at Sherlock, across the table. Soft yellow candlelight plays over the hollows of his thin face. The shadows along the sides of his nose highlight it's perfection - slender and elfin, just turned up the slightest bit at the end, making him look younger than he is. His nose lends his face a mischievousness it would otherwise be lacking. And those lips. Pale pink, lush and soft, the outline a smudged line fading into his skin.Those lips are bloody mesmerising. The way he moves them when he talks, creating words from nothingness, forming whole unknown languages with every syllable...those lips are made to be kissed until they’re swollen, bruised, bitten raw at the edges.

 _Calm down, Watson._ _Just start with making conversation._

“So. Been an interesting night. What with you almost committing suicide and that.” I’ve never been this fascinated by someone. It's tremendously difficult to keep myself to myself about it. I already got a bit too obvious at the first crime scene, with all my exclamations _fantastic_ and  _amazing_. Having Sherlock call attention to it was frankly mortifying, though I was secretly pleased when he seemed to approve. 

“Mmm.” Sherlock’s not paying me a bit of mind. Time to get his attention.

“Sherlock. Is this, uh - ? Is this a date now? Like an actual date? 'Cause it's rather feeling like a date.” I don't talk like this, I'm never this forward. It's as though I'm drunk on him, uninhibited simply by his presence.

Sherlock's been staring out the window the whole meal thus far. Finally, he snaps his head round and blinks at me, his green eyes glimmering gold. “What?”

“I _said_ , is this a date now? I mean, I did kill a man to save your life tonight - which I am still perfectly comfortable with, _I can tell you're about to ask_ \- and now we’re having a candlelit dinner for two. Seems a bit...intense...for flatmates.” 

“I...I thought I made it clear that I’m married to the work, John.” Sherlock shifts, adjusts his shoulders. The ridge of his nose furrows. “And I thought you were...you know. That you preferred women.”

I tilt my head to the side - I’ve been told it makes me look rather adorable - and meet Sherlock's curious gaze, “Sometimes I do. And sometimes, I like men. I just like who I like, I'm not fussed about what's in their trousers. Okay?”

Sherlock snorts out a laugh, and looks at me for a long moment. Blinking, long black lashes tangling together each time he closes his eyes, procrastinating, he reaches up to scratch the back of his neck with those long slender fingers, mussing a collection of black curls at the nape .

“Oh, that's lovely. You have gorgeous hands, do you know? Absolutely _gorgeous_.” I have no idea where this boldness is coming from, except that I’m a little high on adrenaline still, and I’m just dead attracted to him. I’ve never felt so drawn to anyone before. The minute we looked at each other in that lab at Bart’s, I felt it. It was like time stopped for a the briefest moment. It was shivers in your belly, and uneven breathing, and that feeling that there will never be another moment when you’re not connected to this other person in some way. That something irrevocable has happened. More romantic types would call it love at first sight. That doesn't begin to describe what I already feel about this extraordinary man.

I know my life will never again be without him in it. The second our eyes locked in that lab, something irrevocable happened. At least for me.

Sherlock shot me down earlier, but it’s worth another go. He's worth another go.

He blushes, a deep crimson lighting along his cheekbones. My god, he is lovely when he blushes - the colour along the edges of his cheeks making the pale white of the rest of his skin stand out in stark contrast. He looks like a Victorian watercolour, all soft edges and pastels. Elegant and flawless.

“John.” He sounds flustered and pleased. His hands are fluttering nervously over the table, folding and unfolding his napkin. “I - I’m flattered, truly. But, relationships just really...”

“Aren’t your area. Yeah, I know. You’ve said.” I lower my head, bite my lower lip, and look up at him. I’m working _really_ hard here, pulling out everything in my arsenal.

Sherlock's the most brilliant, ridiculous, infuriating man I've ever met. He shouldn't be likable, but the same's been said about me. I know I'm not the easiest person to get along with, and yet. In the short space of time we've known one another, Sherlock's made me laugh more times than I have in the last two years, and even more remarkably, I seem to be able to make _him_ laugh, with somewhat regular frequency. Every time he throws that oddly shaped head back and giggles like a schoolboy, something warm and delicious unfurls in my stomach.

We've fallen into a close and familiar companionship, which should probably feel uncomfortable after only knowing each other for less than forty eight hours. It doesn't though. It feels - expected. As though we've both been waiting for this for a long time.

“It’s not that I’m not...I mean…I do enjoy your, uh, presence...” He takes a breath, tongue darting out between his lips. The place where his tongue touched is wet, a hue darker than the rest of his mouth. I can’t stop looking at it. He still won’t meet my eye, looking out the window, or down at his hands fidgeting with the napkin. Anywhere but at me.

“Yeah?” I'm shocked by how my voice drops, rough and thick. I have to suppress a little shudder.

“John, I’ve never. Never, you know.” The blush in his cheeks turns a darker shade of pink. He flicks his eyes down to his plate, won’t look up.

“Never what? Been in a relationship?” Christ, he  _oozes_ sex; his intensity, the way his hands run over his own body, play with his mouth. Those damnable shirts that are three sizes too small, buttons pulled taut, always ruffling his hair so it’s falling in his eyes. It's difficult to imagine he's _never_  been in a relationship.

“No. Never. It’s just not something that ever happened for me when I was young, and the older I got...it just became infinitely more difficult to fit another person into my life. The work became the only thing that mattered, and I forgot about even wanting a relationship. I can’t remember the last time I wanted...” He finally meets my eye. His eyes are translucent grey and green, and I notice for the first time that he’s got a brown freckle in his right eye, right at the top of the iris. It’s got to be the only unchangeable thing about his eyes, eyes that change colour with his moods, his clothes, what the weather’s like. His pupils are always changing sizes, with no rhyme or reason. They’re the most fascinating eyes I’ve ever seen. And now that freckle. Everything about this guy is unusual. I would move heaven and earth to find out what makes him tick.

I can’t pretend I’m not a bit gobsmacked by the idea of someone our age having never dated. But honestly, if I would believe it of anyone, it would be Sherlock. Everything about him is surprising and unexpected. And, it’s a bit sexy, actually, the idea that I could still be someone’s first - _everything_. “But, if there _had_  been someone - it would have been a bloke, right?”

The corner of his mouth ticks up marginally. “Yes. Had I had the opportunity, it would have been a...bloke.”

I nod a few times, more to myself than to Sherlock. Good to know he’s not completely off the table. I look up at him, smiling, and our eyes lock. This happens way more than it should between regular mates, which is almost never. We look at each other for a very long moment, until the air between us starts to fill with a crackling electricity. _Fuck it, Watson, just go for it._

Sherlock’s left hand is laying on the table, fingers curled around the stem of his wine glass. I put my hand over his, the tips of my fingers curling over the inside of his wrist right near his pulse, and raise his glass of wine up to my own lips, take a long sip. He’s still staring at me, eyes now wide and surprised. 

I finish swallowing and lower the glass and our hands to the table. “Well, I already fit into the work.”

His mouth opens, no sound coming out, and he pops it closed again. He still hasn’t withdrawn his hand from under mine. I can feel every bone, every tendon, under my palm. He’s not moving a centimeter. I draw my hand away, making sure to do so as slowly as possible.

“Just, you know. Think on that.” I pull my napkin off of my lap and put it on the table, already stretching and half yawning. “Ready to go home? I’m knackered.”

“Uh.” He’s fumbling in his wallet, trying to count out the bills to leave on the table. I have to fight hard to keep a shit eating grin off my face. I’ve completely flummoxed him. The great Consulting Detective. I’ve totally thrown him off his game. _Brilliant._

“Cab? Or maybe not tonight, eh? Had enough of cabs for a bit. Let’s walk.” Laughing, I walk out of the restaurant, leaving him to catch up with me. Which he does in a few long paces, since his legs are about ten metres longer than mine.

We fall into stride with each other, close enough to hold hands. We don’t, though the backs of our hands brush a few times, and I swear I feel the curl of his pinky into mine once. But I'm going to let him steer this ship. I’ve said what I intended to say for tonight, and I’ve - rather satisfyingly - rendered him speechless.

***

We go out to dinner often over the next few months, and they somehow frame our relationship. They’re the times we absolutely aren’t colleagues, or flatmates. Just the two of us, quietly talking over plates of Chinese or curry or Italian. In the beginning, he doesn't eat much, just drinks wine and fiddles with the tableware. But as our friendship grows, and he relaxes around me, he begins to eat more, and soon he's clearing his plate as often as I am.

The ritual of us going out together most nights, and talking about things that don’t involve cases. We talk about music, and books. I tell him stories from uni, and med school, and he gives me the inside scoop on the lot we work with at Scotland Yard. He talks to me about composing music, and some nights after we come home from dinner, he’ll play his violin for me, his eyes fixed on me instead of out the window as he usually does.

Some nights we do takeaway at home, cartons and boxes and plastic cutlery spread out on the coffee table, us side by side on the sofa, watching crap telly and laughing. Most nights, after we’re done eating, we’ll lean back in the sofa, and my arm ends up behind his shoulders, my fingers lazily twirling locks of his hair. Occasionally, his hand will drop to my thigh, and I love to look at the white of his hand on top of my jeans. But that’s as far as it ever goes. He knows how I feel. I’ve let him know plenty of times since that first night. And I know that I can wait. I don’t need to rush this.

We’re sitting on the sofa on just such a night, when things change. It's nearly eight months to the day after that first night. We’re watching crap telly and I'm stuffed full of dim sum, drowsy and warm. Sherlock’s head rests heavy on my shoulder, our sides pressed together from armpits to knees, socked feet next to each other on the coffee table, and I’m massaging his scalp with my fingertips. Eyes closed, I’m just enjoying the feeling of my fingers in his hair, and the warmth of his body next to mine, feeling quite cosy.

“John. What are we doing?” Sherlock’s voice is hardly more than a murmur.

“Mmmm, watching X Factor and falling asleep? That’s what I’m doing anyway.” It's not as though I don't know what he’s hinting at, but I’ve learned with Sherlock it’s better to draw him out than finish his sentences for him. I always get more honesty out of him if I play dumb.

“I mean...is this a relationship? We spend all our time together, we go out to dinner, we live together, we...cuddle...on the sofa. Are we in a relationship?” Sherlock sounds so childlike when he’s unsure about something. He’s often unsure, for whatever he’d like other people to believe. I see it all the time, how nervous he gets in social situations, because he _wants_ to do the right thing, he truly wants to be liked, but he just doesn’t know how to behave, how to react to other people.

I’ve become his barometer for how he should act. He’s deduced that I have the social skills he lacks, which is vaguely true. At least I'm able to fake it a little better. It's easier for me than for him, being with people. I can have a casual pub night with Greg and Molly, or chat up the neighbors after Sherlock’s exploded something in the kitchen and made crockery fall from their shelves. He looks to me to explain people to him. To explain _himself_ to him. It breaks my heart a little bit every time he turns to me and says, “Was that wrong? John, was that wrong?”

And now he’s asking if we’re in a relationship. Because he truly doesn’t know.

I drop my arm around his shoulders and squeeze. “Oh, Sherlock. For someone so smart, you can be remarkably stupid.”

He stiffens against me. _Shit._ I’ve pissed him off.

“Look, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” I don’t want to put him off. I know I need to be awfully careful with him, because, Jesus, he’s 33 and he’s never had a relationship. He’s terrified of this.

“It’s alright. I just don’t understand, and I want to understand. I hate not understanding something. Particularly when it’s to do with you.” He sounds so petulant. My god, he really is like a child sometimes. Which can be really bloody irritating. And also remarkably endearing, especially with the heaviness of his lithe, lovely body pressed up against me, and an evening of laughter and inside jokes and greasy takeaway reminding me how much I just plain _like_ Sherlock. He makes me laugh, all the time, and before we met, I hadn’t laughed much in a very long time.

He can be patronising, and terribly rude, but for all his foibles and ridiculousness, I am _utterly_ besotted by him. I still have a terrible time keeping my “Amazing!”s to myself whenever he does something clever. His violin playing sends me melting into the sofa. Just us reading by the fire, our feet propped on the other’s chair, is the most pleasant and comfortable thing I’ve ever done with anyone. His presence just makes me happy. He’s the most fascinating and simultaneously infuriating person I’ve ever met, and even when he’s acting like a petulant child, it actually makes me smile.

And very damned little made me smile before I met Sherlock.

“Sherlock. I live with you. I spend every second of my free time with you. We go to dinner. We watch telly, and have tea, and talks walks in the park. I make sure you eat, and I do all the shopping. We work together. I do the _most_  inane things, _only_  because you ask me to - like sending a text for you when your phone is in _your_  pocket and I’m across the flat. Or London.” We both laugh, and Sherlock curls almost imperceptibly towards me, his fist curled on my stomach. “If you don’t know by now I’m completely devoted to you, well, shit, I really don’t know how else I can show you.”

There’s a long pause. “So we _are_ in a relationship?”

“Yes, you sodding idiot. We’re in a relationship. I’m not going _anywhere_. And whenever you’re ready to take this to the next level, I’m here. I’m not pushing you. You take your time. And I’m ready when you are, and not before. Okay?” I put my hand over his on my stomach, and interlace our fingers. We’ve held hands a few times before, mostly at dinner, our hands finding each other over balled up napkins and empty butter pots. But it feels different tonight - feels like something solidifying, as Sherlock’s understanding of what we are to each other comes in line with what I’ve understood since the second we met. That we _belong_ to each other.

Sherlock makes a deep contented humming sound and turns further toward me. Now his chest is against my side, and he stretches out his arm so that it’s across my stomach, fingers wrapped around my waist. The hand that had been holding Sherlock’s slips to his forearm, thin and sinewy beneath my palm. His heart thumps steadily against my ribs, and it’s the loveliest feeling in the world. I’ve never felt this kind of abiding and encompassing devotion to anyone. I would do anything he asked of me.

“John. I’ve never even kissed anyone.” He raises his head to look at me. I can barely make out the colour of his eyes in the dim light from the telly, but I can see how warm and expectant they are. He’s not embarrassed, thank god. He knows I don’t give a toss about him being completely inexperienced.

I shift, so I’m facing him a bit more. As I move, his hand goes from my waist to the small of my back. His fingers on my spine makes me shudder. _Breathe deep, Watson._ I run my hand from his forearm, over his bicep and his shoulder, all so painfully thin, and finally lay my hand against his face. His skin is so smooth, just the hint of stubble, and underneath, soft and delicate. I pass my thumb beside his mouth a few times, my eyes focused on his lips. Lips which are a bit pinker than usual, the outlines a bit more defined, and looking distinctly pouty.

“Would you like to try?” I’m fighting the instinct to pin him down to the sofa and kiss him until he’s pink and panting. It’s not easy. Thumb over the side of his mouth, fingers behind his tightening jaw. “We don’t have to.”

_Oh god, yes, we do._

He’s looking at me with wide eyes, a slight flush edging up his neck. He grips my wrist and leans forward. “I _want_ to.”

“Good. I want to, too.” Smiling, I lean forward, pulling his face to meet mine. Our lips touch, and Christ, my skin’s on fire immediately. I have to hold back. I know what comes next when your lips are burning and your stomach is floating away and your groin is tingling and tightening, but Sherlock doesn’t. And I have to remember that.

He’s rigid, lips not moving. He’s no idea what to do. I pull back. He looks like a statue, eyes closed, lips pursed, immobile. My little heartbreaker. Gorgeous and ridiculous, a genius and a moron.

“Loosen up.” I whisper to him, my lips against his cheek. “Just stop thinking about it, and just feel it.”

“I’m trying, John.” He sounds frustrated, the way he sounds when an experiment isn’t turning out as he expected, or we have a boring client.

“Don’t try so hard, okay?” I kiss his jaw lightly, just a peck, really, and he shivers. _Yeah._ That’s what I want him to do. His fingers curl at my back, and his chest drops, leaning toward me. “Yeah, there you go. Just let go a bit. It’s just us, just any other night.”

“Can you...can you kiss me there again? That was...nice.” He’s looking at me unabashedly, those long lashes casting shadows around his eyes. A thick curl has fallen across the middle of his forehead. His hair’s a bit longer than it usually is, a bit wilder. I like it like this. It makes him look younger, more relaxed, more like the Sherlock I know when it’s just the two of us at home together.

“Yeah, ‘course.” _Deep breaths, Watson_. My lips to the edge of his jaw, just resting them there, feeling every little hair, every infinitesimal bump, the smooth bone underneath. He shivers again, leans into me fractionally. I’m shivering, too, and trying not to think about the fact that I’m half hard from kissing him twice, and not even on the lips. I pull back and look at him, his face all shadows and hollows. His eyes are closed, lashes resting against his skin, his lips slightly open. “Good?”

He nods, swallowing. “Can we try again?”

“Oh yeah.” I have to stop myself from lunging and kissing him ferociously. But I know he’s not ready for that, and I’ve been careful and patient all these months. I can hold on a bit longer.

So I kiss him gently, pressing both my lips to his bottom one, and then to the top. Nose against nose, inching closer to each other, my arms slipping around Sherlock’s back. He’s breathing shallow and too fast, shoulders heaving up and down. Just from this incredibly chaste kiss. Something sweet and sad rises up in me. He tries so hard to set himself apart, to hold himself above the rest of us lowly humans, but really, he’s no different than any of the rest of us. He wants companionship and love and sex just as much as anyone else - he’s just buried it so deep, it takes him months to build up to one kiss. And then he’s trembling and he can’t breathe and he’s flattened by someone’s lips on his.

 _Heartbreaker_.

He finally pulls his lips away, and his face slides against my cheek, his forehead coming to rest in the curve between my shoulder and my neck. I slide my hand up to grip the back of his neck, kneading gently. “Sherlock? You okay?”

I can feel him shaking his head slightly. “ _Mmmm_. No. I think not, John. Decidedly not. I’m...overwhelmed. I never imagined that would feel like that. I can actually feel the dopamine, the oxytocin, the serotonin...I can actually _feel_  it being released through my bloodstream. My skin, the nerve endings in my lips, I can actually feel them sparking, transmitting. It’s the most incredible - I feel faint.”

I restrain the laugh that’s threatening in my throat. _Watson, you utter shit. Don’t laugh at him, for god’s sake_.

Managing a rather doctorly tone, I ask, “You wanna lie down?”

He nods. I tip both of us back on the sofa, him on his back and me squashed between his body and the back of the sofa. I throw an arm over his stomach, concave when he’s on his back, ribcage protruding, hipbone so defined it practically casts a shadow. He finally opens his eyes and looks at me. The look in his eyes makes my heart clench a little. It’s affection so warm, I can almost physically feel the heat. He reaches a hand up to touch my mouth and twists so he’s turned toward me a little more.

“Good now, Sherlock?”

The weight of his fingers against my mouth is the most possessive touch he's ever given me.  _This mouth is mine, this person belongs here with me and no where else._

“As long as you’re with me, John. Everything’s been so much better since you’ve been with me.” His hand slides around the back of my head, pulling me down to kiss him again. This time, he’s much looser, much more natural. His lips part a little and I take it as permission. I flick my tongue over his lips, just lightly, and he groans, which sends a ripple of desire down my spine. He's receptive, and murmur questioningly, wanting to make sure he's alright with this. When he nods agaisnt me, smiles as we're kissing, I keep going, tongue pushing his lips apart, drawing him deeper. His tongue darts wonderingly into my mouth, and when our tongues touch, my hips jerk forward instinctively. He gasps, and squirms underneath me. Shudders.

_Still got it, Watson._

“Quick learner, Mr Holmes.” I mutter against his mouth.

“Good teacher, Dr Watson.” He tilts his head so our foreheads are touching, his hand still wrapped around my neck.

A absolutely ridiculous grin spreads across my face. I squeeze him to me, and duck my head down to put my nose in his neck. Ah, I love how he smells. It’s expensive soap and wool, lab chemicals and fresh air. No one else in the world smells like this, I’m sure of it. Just breathing him in like this makes my head go muzzy. Before I can stop myself, it just slips out. “I love you.”

A sharp intake of breath, and then a pause. I freeze. _Shit_. Maybe shouldn’t have said that yet. I’ve known it for months now, but I never wanted him to think I was pressuring him to feel or act a certain way, so I’ve kept it to myself.

But then he breathes out, and I can feel his whole body relaxing, sinking closer into mine. Our feet touch, and he curls an ankle around mine, rubbing our socks together in a way that is so familiar, and curiously, almost more intimate than the kiss we just shared.

He doesn’t say anything, but I don’t need him to. I know.

The frame of the sofa is pressing into my spine, his hipbone is digging into my stomach, and my arm is completely contorted underneath me, already starting to lose some blood flow and get tingly, but I’ll stay like this all night if he wants me to. Only for him. I’d do just about anything for him.

***

After that first night, Sherlock's like a new man. _My_ new man. 

When we wake up that morning - after spending all night smashed uncomfortably on the sofa together - Sherlock almost immediately draws my face up to meet his. The next night, coming home after an evening at the Yard, he comes to me while I’m putting the kettle on, his hands going to my waist, and we stand in the kitchen snogging, ignoring the kettle screaming behind us. We kiss until we're raw, until his face is scrubbed pink from my evening stubble, and then he leans our foreheads together and breathes heavy, while I run soothing hands up and down his arms. 

"Okay, Sherlock?" I tuck a stray curl behind his ear.

"More than." He raises his head, eyes soft, and kisses me again. "Better than I've ever been."

We’re more intimate with each other in general. He brushes his teeth while I’m in the shower, strolls into my room while I’m getting dressed and just lays on the bed, talking to me. The first morning he did it, I was starkers, had to grab a wet towel from the hamper. But for all his shyness about kissing, nudity doesn't seem to phase him a jot. Walks around naked, almost like a child who doesn’t want to get dressed. The temptation to look is agonising, but I avert my eyes and behave myself, thank you very much. 

There’s lots of snogging on the sofa, me half on top of him, kissing and hands (nearly) everywhere until it gets too intense for him, and then we snuggle together and settle, me wishing desperately it could be more, but knowing I can’t rush him. Often, we fall asleep like that, spend all night pressed together, waking up cramped and sore. I haven't suggested we sleep in bed together. I know he’s just not there yet.

One evening, after one of our dinner dates and a bit too much wine, we’re walking, nestled against each other, my arm tucked inside his coat, round his waist, feeling every muscle move against me as he walks. Our hips keep banging against each other, him wriggling happily every time, and suddenly I just. Want him so badly.

"Come'ere," I murmur, tugging him into the next little alley I see - _John, what on earth_ \- push him up against the wall - _Oh. Oh, John. Yes, yes, oh, oh please._ \- and kiss him with every ounce of emotion that's been simmering inside of me for months. He whimpers and grinds against me, drags his fingers down my back as we rock against each other. His cock presses hard into my belly, which I've felt before, but never like this. We always stop, we break apart, breathe, go into the bathroom for a wank.

But god I love this man with every cell in my body, and I want to _show_ him. I want to pin him to the bed, suck him off, put my mouth on every inch of his skin, make him wail in pleasure, watch his eyes roll back, his legs shake, see what he looks like when he comes apart.

“Sherlock.” I breathe against his neck, and slowly rock my hips against his thigh. The friction makes me jerk and shudder.

I’m bursting with desire for him. I’ve never wanted anyone like this, and I’ve been holding it, submerging it for so long. I feel like I’ve been underwater for months and I just burst through the surface, gulping air. I’ll never get enough now. We move against each other again, desperate and aching, and I can’t stop the groan emerging from my throat, my whole body shivering, stomach muscles contracting.

“Oh _god_ , John. That - that is very good.” Sherlock’s head is tipped back against the brick wall, chest heaving. His eyelashes flutter with every exhalation.

“I want you. I don’t want to wait anymore.” I can barely talk, I’m so breathless with want. "Can we - can we not wait anymore? I love you so much."

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He just nods several times, locking his eyes on mine. His mouth opens a little, he breathes out through his nose, and then he pushes his erection against my hip, his fingers digging into my shoulder. We both gasp, and the corner of Sherlock's mouth ticks up in that now familiar mischievous grin, his eyes black in the dim light.

“Let’s not wait, then.” Sherlock grabs my hand and pulls me out of the alley, running. He’s laughing, and dragging me along, my short legs having trouble keeping up with his long ones, and I’ve never seen him so relaxed or open. It makes me happier than I ever remember being to see him like this, unrestrained. _Real._

We run for a few blocks, dodging other people, and being shouted at a few times by those we weren’t completely able to avoid, and then Sherlock stops suddenly and yanks me to him. He runs his hands into my hair, cradling my head between them, his thumbs over my ears, face all toothy grin and sparkling eyes. “You’ve done this to me, John Watson. Only you.”

I shake my head, laughter bubbling out of me to see him like this. “What on earth are you on about, Sherlock?”

“It’s so different with you. I’ve never met someone like you. Everything’s brighter and calmer when you’re around. The world’s not so...desiccated.” I’m still trying to figure out what exactly he means by that when he swoops down on me, mouth soft and willing and hungry, his tongue slipping between my lips easily, familiar and right. I kiss him back with the same hunger, catching his lips between mine, and wrap my arms around his neck.

We’re laughing against each other’s mouths, half drunk, standing in the middle of the sidewalk with the stream of people bending around us. I register a few hoots, wolf whistles, people clapping. It’s ludicrous, as though we’re in a formulaic rom-com. But I honestly couldn't give a toss, because I’ve never felt like this with another person, and I don't ever plan to again. Only Sherlock. Always Sherlock.

“You’re amazing. I never know what to expect with you.” I reach down and grab his hands, draw them up between us, press our chests together, nudge his nose with mine. “Let’s go home. I want to take you to bed.”

My voice is a growl, and I see him ripple with pleasure. He bites into his bottom lip, hard. Looks at me, eyes blue and bright, headlamp lights from the passing cars dancing in them. There’s no trepidation there anymore. “Yes, John. Take me to bed.”

***

We barely make it up to my bedroom. Kissing and stumbling our way up the steps, grabbing at each other’s clothes. Sherlock must have been holding back, too. His kisses are deep and hungry, teeth scraping against mine, tongue insistent. He knocks me back on the bed, breathing heavily, shoulders heaving.

“I don’t even know what I want to do to you, John.” His erection is obvious in his trousers, and I reach out without hesitation, stroke my fingertips over the outline of it. He shudders so hard, he falls forward on the bed, hands on either side of me, my legs on either side of him. His curls are hanging forward, framing his face, his eyes wide and black, cheeks ruddy from the cold. He’s breathtakingly beautiful.

“Well, I know what I want to do to you, Sherlock. I know - every - single - thing - I want to do.” Peppering his neck with kisses in between each word, touching my lips to every freckle. I slide my hands up his chest, touch my finger to the center of that perfect, pouty bottom lip of his. He very slowly purses his lips into a kiss, and then dips his head forward so the tip of my finger goes into his mouth.

“Oh, my god, come here.” I cannot stand one more second without him pressed flush against me.

I slide my fingers into those nape curls that make me crazy, and pull him towards me, nudge our mouths together. He sighs and sinks down, licking at my mouth, combing his fingers through my hair until I'm trembling. I’ve never had him laying on top of me like this, every body part touching, his full weight pressing me down into the mattress. I can’t breathe, and I don’t care. He's shivering violently, tension in every muscle. I pull back so I can look at him, see whether it’s desire or fear that’s making him shake so.

Oh, it’s desire. It’s searing, molten desire. His eyes are black and intense, the ever-present freckle in the right one finally obscured, his pupils are blown so wide. Just one look in those eyes, and I’m hooking a leg behind his thigh, flipping him on his back and straddling him. Sitting up, I pull my jumper over my head and throw it. Immediately, his hands are on my bare stomach, pushing and insistent. Oh god. Now I’m the one who’s shaking.

The anticipation of this, me wondering whether it would ever actually happen, was sometimes unbearable. Watching him, his gorgeous, graceful way of moving, wondering if I would ever get to actually have all of him, I’ve had to restrain myself so many times. Just because I knew he wasn’t ready and I didn’t want to put him off.

And now here are his hands roaming over my chest, hot and rough, calloused from violin playing, and I’m gasping for breath, grinding down into him, squeezing his hips with the insides of my thighs. “Oh my fucking god, Sherlock. This is - so good.”

He responds by tilting his hips up and grabbing my arse firmly, pulling me forward. The rush of blood from my head almost lays me flat. We rock against each other for a few minutes, the tension building and building, until I'm leaking in my pants.

“Too many clothes, too many - ” I roll forward, drop my lips to his ear. Mouth his ear gently, set him to rolling his head on the pillow, making lovely little moaning sounds. “Can I? You know - ?”

"What, John?" 

"I want," I take a deep breath, careful to phrase it so it's exactly what I intend. "I want to be  _inside you_. Can I? It's alright if - "

A luscious low groan escapes him, and I sit up to look at his reaction. He’s licking those obscenely pouting lips, and his head pounds back into the bed, long neck arching beautifully. “Yes, John, yes. _Please._ I’ve thought about it so many times.”

“Yeah?” My voice is barely above a whisper. “When?”

Sherlock looks at me, reservation in his expression. He doesn’t answer me.

I roll my hips into him, drag my fingertips up his neck nice and slow, trace his earlobe. My belly is getting warmer, nerves at the base of my spine crackling with pleasure already. Under me, Sherlock is twisting and squirming, his hands running from the outside of my hips to my chest, and then down to my thighs. I feel like my blood has turned to honey, I feel so lazy and drunk with lust. I could draw this out all night, just riding him, feeling our bodies melding together, him hard against me.

I lean down again, kiss under his jaw, nip at his ear. Breathe hot on his neck. “Tell me, baby. Tell me. When did you think about it? I wanna know.”

His back arches as he makes a soft whimpering noise against my neck. “John, oh god. All the time. Watching you...ah...make coffee in the morning. Or when we...oh god...were on the sofa together. Watching you get out of the shower and I could see your - oh, John, come _on_. I can’t - _think_ \- right now.”

He can’t _think_. Brilliant. The great brain has been shut down by my cock against his, by my mouth on his throat. Arousal pulses hot through every nerve ending, my skin on fire, my cock straining against my jeans.

I roll off him, undo my jeans and get both them and my pants off as quickly as I can, and lay down next to Sherlock. He immediately reaches for my cock. I put a staying hand on his. Even as desperate as I am, I want this to be right. I want it to be special, and not over in 10 minutes. “We’ve both been waiting for this for a long time I think, yeah?”

"Yeah," Sherlock pants, eyes shut, his cheeks crimson.

He’s got a forearm thrown over his eyes. He looks completely sinful, in the best way, his hair every which way, curls spread across the pillow, his lips red and swelled, his cheeks mottled with colour. I push his shirt up to his ribcage, put my mouth to the soft skin right above his hip, his mouth falls open, a soft _uuuuhhhh_ sound escaping his lips. I'm going to make him feel things he's never even imagined he could. Bracing myself with one hand, I work my way up his belly and his chest, licking and kissing him unhurriedly with a soft, open mouth, all the while undoing the buttons of his shirt.

The noises coming out of him are unbelievable. His voice is so deep, every little gasp sounds completely dirty.

“You’re going to make me come, just listening to you, Sherlock. Those sounds are gorgeous. You won’t even have to touch me.” My voice is dark and husky from arousal, my lips against his neck, my hand working his trousers open.

" _John_ ," he manages, one hand clawing desperately at the back of my head. 

"Is it good?" Whisper against his skin, nose brushing the hardness of one taut nipple.

"It's good, it's so - " He quakes and sucks in a noisy breath, apparently unable to finish.

"I want it to be so good for you, so good, Sherlock."

I work him from from his shirt, kissing down the pale insides of those elegant arms, and nuzzle my way down the soft fuzz of his belly while I'm sliding his trousers and pants down. Finally we’re both laid bare before each other. For the first time. I drink in the sight of him lying there, his body flushed and damp with sweat, writhing gently and beautifully against the sheets. His cock, long and more slender than my own, glistening wet against his taut stomach, makes my mouth water. I climb on top of him, kissing his neck, and his hands come naturally to my hips as I start to rock against him.

“Yeah, that’s it. Open your legs a bit more. There you go, gorgeous.” He falls open to me, our cocks aligning naturally together, and I rock myself slowly against him, letting him adjust to the rush of sensation. But it's me that needs a moment, overwhelmed suddenly by the emotion of this. We've waited so long, I've been in love with him since forever, and I've never loved anyone like this before. I slow my movements, drop my face to his throat, kiss him slow and gentle along his collarbone, press a hard kiss to his cheek.  _I love him_. 

“Something wrong, John?” His voice is breathy, catching on his inhalations.

“No, baby, no.” Baby? That’s the second time that slipped out. But he doesn’t seem to mind. Funny, but I thought he would hate things like endearments. “Everything’s _right_. I just want to make it last.”

Sherlock answers by grabbing my head between his long hands and kissing me until I have to break away to get a breath. Our eyes meet as I pull back. He draws a finger down my cheek, smiling at me. “Thank you for waiting. I would never have been able to want this, when we first met. I didn't know I could  _allow_ myself to want this. You’ve drawn me out, John Watson. You’ve made me remember -”

“...that you’re not actually a sociopath?” I finish for him, laughing. “You’re not. You’re not even close. You’re a selfish, maniacal, childish, infuriating little tosser…”

“Thank you.” Sherlock rolls his eyes at me, and slaps my arse playfully.

“...and you’re also brilliant, and funny, and kind -- when you want to be, and you make me so happy. I’m ridiculously in love with you, you know.” I kiss him long and deep, our tongues tangling together, and I realise I’ve begun moving against him again, and there’s quite a lot of friction.

Lube. We need lube. I reach across him to the bedside table, scrabble in the drawer for the bottle, and squeeze some onto my hand.

“I’m in love with you, too, John.” His voice is so deep, the tenor of his words so careful and measured. His eyes are so warm, so quiet and calm. "I do. I love you so much."

He’s _never_ said he loves me. Not in the year we’ve spent nearly every second together.

“Oh, Sherlock. Oh. Christ, you’re amazing.” I can’t stop murmuring how amazing he is as I kiss him over and over, on his lips, down his neck, in the sweet soft hollow above his sternum. I slide my lubed hand over his cock, slowly, and he gasps, moans, pushes into my hand with enthusiasm. I just kiss him and stroke slowly for a few minutes. He’s already wrecked, writhing and moaning, when I slide two slicked fingers into him gently.

He’s immediately shaking, his thigh muscles jerking and shaking. I grab his right hand, interlace our fingers and press his hand down to the mattress, steadying it. “Alright?"

"Yes, it's alright, it's _good_ , just - it's a lot."

"Do you want me to stop?" I asked him that first night we kissed, and now is even more important.

"No." He sounds sure and steady. He runs a damp thumb over my eyelashes, his smile sex-drugged and languid. "No, don't stop."

"Alright. Hey. Listen. I’ve got you, okay? Haven’t I always got you?”

His eyes have been pressed shut, and now they open. Looking at me with wide pupils, ringed with turquoise. “You’ve always got me, John.”

“That’s right. I do.” I start working my fingers now, very gently loosening, getting him ready, and making him whine and pant. “No, no - don’t close your eyes. Look at me. That’s right, baby, you just keep on looking at me.”

Little moans are coming out of him with every exhalation. He can’t stop making noise now, and I love it. “I...like..it…” He can hardly talk, he’s breathing so fast. “I - like - it - when you - when you - call me baby.”

 _Oh, god, I love that he loves that._  I dip my mouth to the sweet skin of his neck, biting and sucking out a love bite, and rub my aching cock against his thigh. He grabs my arse, pushes me harder against him. I crook my fingers inside of him, trying to find his prostate, and when I do, brushing my middle fingertip over it lightly, I nearly bite into his throat as he shouts out and arches his hips up so far off the bed that my fingers slip out of him. 

“It's okay, Sherlock, it's okay.” Hand on his hip, pushing him back to the bed. I ease his knees apart and give his cock a few long slow pulls, thumb over the slit, spreading lube and precome down over the sensitive skin of his frenulum, cradle his bollocks in my palm, index finger massaging between them. He’s absolutely undone now, thrashing and sweating, red and splotchy from head to toe.

"Please, John, oh god, _oh god_ ," he keens, twisting underneath me as though he can't bear to be still. His cock leaks steadily against his belly.

"Does it feel good?" I ask again, knowing the answer.

"Oh, god, it's amazing, it's - I've never felt like this - god I want to  _come_ \- " Sherlock rolls his head back and forth against the pillow, grunting and panting. His cheeks are scarlet, his torso maroon down to his waist.   

"Oh, you will. And it will be incredible. But not quite yet, love." I push my fingers into him again, and he arches, squeezing tight around me. 

I pull my fingers out slowly, and run my hand up his side, thumb over his nipple, making him jerk. “Oh, please, John - I can’t take any more. _Please._ I want you inside me, please - ” He starts to turn over on his front.

“No, no, no…” I grab his hip, stopping him. He’s glistening with a sheen of perspiration, his mouth so swollen and red it’s obscene. “I want to look at you, you gorgeous thing. I want to be able to kiss you.”

I shove a pillow under his hips as quickly as I can, and position myself in between his legs, his knees bent and drawn up on either side of my ribcage. “Ready?"

“Oh, yes, John, yes…” His head is thrown back, grinding into the mattress, curls all tangled and twisted. His cock is leaking, twitching. Neither one of us is going to last any reasonable amount of time.

I push into him slowly, and the sensation is so overwhelming that I can’t move for a moment. I just kneel there, swaying, overcome with feeling, my fingers digging into Sherlock’s thighs.

“John? You can move. John? Are you alright?” I open my eyes, and he’s looking at me so quizzically, so _deductively_ , and so completely out of sync with the moment we’re in, that I start to laugh. He takes one look at my laughing face, and he starts going, too.

It relaxes us both enough to keep going.

“Yeah, I’m alright.” I rock forward, Sherlock tilts his hips up, and I can barely find a rhythm before we’re both tipping towards orgasm. I can feel his muscles tensing around me, can feel myself thickening and pulsing, spirals of electricity circling in my spine.

“Oh, Sherlock. I’m not going to last. I can’t…” I drop forward, catch his mouth in mine, pulling at his lips. I slide one hand down the length of his arm and pin his hand above his head, wiggle the other hand in between us to touch his cock. He groans so loud and deep enough that I'm certain Mrs Hudson can hear us.

“Too much, too much,” He’s so sensitive. We need to finish before this turns from pleasure to pain.

“Okay, Sherlock, okay, I’m sorry.” I grab his other hand, so both hands are above his head, roll my hips forward, and that’s all it takes. A few thrusts, maybe five at the most, and both of us are moaning, breathing out each other's names as we shudder. Sherlock’s come spreads hot and thick between our bellies, his cock untouched. The knowledge that I just made him come just from fucking him pushes me from almost coming to _coming._ I bite into his shoulder, hard, as it rumbles through me like a thunderstorm. Everything goes to white static for a few seconds, and I know I'm being too loud, but god I can't help it.

When I come out the other side, Sherlock’s still under me, mouth open and lax, eyes closed, breathing through aftershocks. I press a gentle kiss to his sweaty neck and pull out slowly, roll off of him. His arms flop down, and he finds my hand with his. Brings it to his face, kisses my knuckles.

“Virgin no more.” He declares, smiling more to himself than to me.

“Nope. Was it - "

"Yes, everything was perfect, John. I love you."

"I love you, too, Sherlock." I pull him to me, kiss his forehead, and his cheeks, brush his sweaty hair from his eyes.

After a few minutes of sticky silence and increasingly calmer breathing, I finally feel like I can move again. “Right, then. I need to get cleaned up. I don’t feel like dealing with a proper shower, a wet flannel will have to do. I’ll bring you one.”

I pop off down the steps to the bathroom, leaving him boneless and half conscious in the bed. Wet two flannels in the sink as I’m washing my hands. I look up at myself in the mirror and grin. My skin is raw and pink from Sherlock’s stubble, my hair is sticking up every which way - I can almost see the tracks of Sherlock’s fingers through it - and I’m radiating joy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen myself so glowing after sex. And it’s all because it’s Sherlock, because _my_ Sherlock, is the most amazing person I’ve ever known.

I can’t even imagine life without him.

I hurry up back to my room, and crawl in bed with him. He’s sprawled on his stomach, diagonally across the bed, elegant limbs all askew. Completely destroyed, and all the happier for it.

“Budge over. Come on.” I prod at him until he rolls over and curls up, leaving me enough room to lay down.

I run a finger down that knobbly spine, making him shiver. “Here’s your flannel, gorgeous.” I drop it on his bare hip.

After I clean myself up, I take the flannel off him and start wiping him up. He rolls to his back under my hands, and finally opens his eyes lazily. A slow smile spreads across his face. “John, that was miraculous.”

I finish wiping his stomach, throw the soiled flannels on the floor, and lace my fingers together over his chest, resting my chin on them. “It won’t always be that mind-bending, you know. I mean, I’ll try…” I give him my most playful little smile.

“I’m sure that it will be, John. Because it’s you.” He arm flops onto my back, and he starts scratching his nails gently on my shoulder blade. “Everything’s rather mind-bending when you’re there. Haven't you realised that yet?”

I shake my head, grinning like a complete arse. “Christ, I love you, Sherlock.”

In answer, he pulls me up until my head is in the crook of his shoulder and kisses the top of my head. I wrap my arms around him and nuzzle into him, letting myself drift into sleep. It couldn’t have been a more perfect night, and all I want is to fall asleep in this man’s arms every night, for the rest of our lives.

As though he can actually hear my thoughts, Sherlock murmurs, “That’s the plan, John. That’s the plan.”


End file.
